Little Jack Frost, Get Lost
by yankeebornandbred
Summary: Dean is a really good skier, Sam admits. But even the best and most careful of skiers can get into accidents… and Dean is a little reckless. As a result, a petrified Sam is thrown into the big brother role for once. AU and Dean!Whump. Rated T for mild language. One shot.


**Here's another brief story for your enjoyment. It's quite a bit longer than my usual 600-1000 word oneshots so I'm curious to hear what you think. It's sort of new territory for me.**

 **Dean!Whump (I've been waiting for forever to use that term… whump is such a _whumpy_ word).**

* * *

"Come on, Sammy! Scared to get your pants a little wet?"

A spray of snow hit Sam in the mouth. He sighed a little and wiped it away.

"I haven't done this in five years, Dean," he called, not holding much hope that Dean would hear him. "Give me a break, okay?"

He heard a faint "Sucker!" and grinned, a little sheepishly, and started to inch his way down the slope. His poles left little, jagged lines through the snow and he wished suddenly that he had taken a refresher course. And not Dean's, because this _here_ was Dean's idea of a refresher course.

Which meant that he was very slowly and painstakingly making his way down a black diamond. He didn't think it a good sign that he was actually feeling grateful for this so-called "concession." Dean had threatened to take him on the double black two slopes away but he'd put his foot down.

"Just to make it clear," he grumbled, when he finally caught up with Dean, who was waiting impatiently about a third of the way down the hill. "This isn't really my idea of fun. I'm thinking more hot coffee by the fireplace kind of stuff."

Dean flashed a grin at him.

"That's because you're a Class A wuss."

"Shut up, jerk."

"Bitch!" Dean yelled back joyously over his shoulder.

Another spray of snow splattered against Sam's face. He sighed again (although he was actually feeling a little excited... no need to tell Dean) and spat out a glob of icy pine needles good-naturedly.

 _Here you go again… sucker_.

* * *

This, Sam decided, was _exactly_ why he hadn't wanted to go on a last run. They'd taken the last lift up – which coincidentally had barely any people on it... three to be exact – and were now dangling precariously over completely empty slopes, nearing the top of the mountain.

The bitingly cold wind whistled in his ears and he pulled his scarf farther up over his face. Its frozen tassels chafed his already chapped cheeks.

The swinging of the metal chair meant that it was necessary to delicately balance one's gear while attempting to blow one's nose. He eyed various items of clothing that hung from nearby conifers and concluded that it was a generally failed enterprise. So he didn't try.

And his nose itched uncomfortably.

"Geez, man, no need to look so miserable. You look like a kicked puppy."

Dean nudged his shoulder none too gently and for a moment Sam's heart nearly stopped as he lost his balance and the chair swung wildly. He grabbed the side bars, his poles rattling together.

"Holy crap! Dean, don't do that!"

Dean laughed heartily and Sam scowled at him. The chair glided smoothly towards the drop-off zone. There was a little jolt as their skis hit the hard-packed snow, and simultaneously they pushed off. Sam managed to slow himself as they reached the middle of the little clearing.

"You're getting better," Dean panted, sliding to a stop at his elbow. "At least you didn't crash into a snow drift like last time."

Sam drew himself up.

"I'll have you know," he said, with dignity, "that I had complete control over that situation."

Dean snorted scornfully.

"Well," Sam continued, pretending he hadn't heard him. He slipped one of his gloves off and pulled out the trail map. "We've gone on Devil's Trap, the Cage, and Flying Dutchman. What should we..."

Dean snatched it out of his hand and tsked reprovingly.

"We're not going on a slope."

"What are you talking about?"

Dean winked.

"I'm taking you on uncharted territory."

"Dean, I don't think..."

"Oh, live a little, Sammy." Dean crumpled up the map and stuffed it into his pocket. "Follow me!"

Sam shrugged.

"Okay. I hope you know what you're doing."

"Are you kidding me?" Dean scoffed, striking a heroic pose. "I'm Batman. Batman doesn't need maps."

Sam laughed and pulled his glove back on. He shoved off, heading towards the patch of trees on their left. He threw a glance back at Dean.

"What are you waiting for, _Batman_?"

* * *

It was difficult to swerve and weave past the trees. Sam was petrified that he'd run into one (he had heard terrible stories about people who had been paralyzed for life after ski accidents), but he found, after a certain amount of time, that he had a good deal of control over his skis and that the whole experience was rather... thrilling. It helped that the snow wasn't criss-crossed with the prints of earlier skiers. The only ones he saw were the occasional three-toed indentations of bird claws or the rounder pads of small rodents.

Dean was ahead, and pretty far ahead at that. Sam wasn't particularly concerned about it, and contented himself with watching the minuscule ripple of his skis whizzing through the soft powder ahead of him. Every now and then, he stopped to gaze back at the two perfect, parallel lines that trailed through the woods behind him.

It was quiet. Like, really, _really_ quiet. Every sound was muffled by the thick clusters of evergreens, and he was fairly certain that they were the last ones on the mountain. The other skiers from the lift had passed them earlier to go on the Flying Dutchmen (the names of the slopes bemused him; they were rather nightmarish).

A sudden yell and sharp crack brought him back to earth. He stopped to register the sound. What could...

His heart jumped to his mouth.

"Dean!"

It had to be Dean. A rush of adrenaline spread through his body as he pushed himself forward, berating himself for falling so far behind and praying that Dean was all right. They were still at least an hour from the lodge, and that meant an hour of _fast_ skiing.

It was with relief that he saw Dean picking himself up from a pile of fluffy snow and skis and poles. The little red tassel of his hat peeked from under the mound. Dean grabbed at it.

"Freakin' tree," he grumbled, falling back with a thud on the snow.

Sam exhaled in relief and skidded to a stop next to him. He shoved his heel against the clasp of his skis and pulled his boots loose. He clumped over awkwardly to help pull out Dean's gear.

"You all right, man?"

"Think so."

Dean's words seemed a little slurred. Sam had a bad feeling about that. He dug around in his pocket for his cellphone, cursing his frozen fingers.

"I think I'll call for help just in case."

"Dude," Dean exclaimed, affronted and snatching futilely for the phone. "I am _not_ going on one of those stupid little red sleds. I'm just a little dizzy. It's fine."

Sam snapped the phone shut.

"There's no reception, anyway," he said, slumping to the ground next to Dean. "What happened?"

Dean shrugged.

"I don't... know exactly," he admitted. "I think it was a... root. Caught on my ski and I flipped over. Something like that."

His hair was dusted with already melting snow. Sam caught a hint of red creeping through his blond hair.

"Hey, c'mere."

He crawled to Dean's other side and examined his head. His fingers came away covered with blood.

"Crap. Dean, you got a gash on your head. It's pretty bad."

Dean jerked his head away and then clutched his forehead.

"Ugh. Damned headache."

Sam pulled off his scarf and pressed it against the wound.

"I'll just wrap this around your head, okay?" he told him. "Hopefully it'll stop the bleeding. I don't need it. I'll zip up my jacket all the way."

Dean didn't protest, which in and of itself made Sam feel more anxious. He pulled Dean to his feet, careful not to jostle him too much.

"We have to start moving. It's already getting dark."

Dean suddenly lurched and doubled over. He threw up a puddle of yellowish-green slime mixed with the reminder of his lunch.

"Oh, God."

Sam grasped his shoulders to keep him steady as he vomited again. And again. Sam had a _very_ bad feeling about that. Dean hacked, gasping for breath during what little time he had between heaves, and went limp, a greenish film coating his lips. Sam swallowed the sick feeling in his stomach and grabbed a handful of snow. He wiped Dean's mouth roughly.

"Are you okay? Come on, Dean, say something... do something. Anything. A thumbs-up?"

Dean made a faint gesture with one of his fingers – it wasn't his thumb – and Sam grinned weakly.

"I'll take that as an okay."

He left Dean sitting in a huddled lump and started to dig out his skis. They were buried way down in the snow, and he had to keep his gloves off so he could feel them. His fingers were numb by the time he dragged the first one out.

He stared at the jaggedly broken edge in horror.

"Shit!"

They were royally screwed. Maybe it took an hour to ski down the mountain, but to walk... he didn't want to think about it. And to walk with Dean, who looked half dead, down a very steep slope with night coming on and snow beginning to fall... that was even more unthinkable. He didn't even know exactly where they were.

He pulled out his phone almost hopefully.

Unfortunately the reception hadn't improved since the last time he'd checked. Dad might notice their absence, but only when he actually reached the hotel room. He was still a minimum of five hours away on the road.

Sam tossed the broken ski back into the mound, not bothering to look for the other. It wasn't any use. Dean couldn't balance on one ski in the state he was in, and if Sam had to support him he couldn't wear one ski either. And then Sam's good pair of skis was useless as well because it was obviously only one pair of skis and one pair of skis was no use to two people and Sam was clearly rambling to himself mentally which was weird and schizophrenic and he had better stop before any chances of getting down the mountain were shot.

He stopped and steadied his breathing. Dean was still sitting very limply on the snow. His whole body seemed to be drooping. His hair clung to his forehead, his neck hung down so that his chin rested on his chest, his hands were slack, and his legs were loosely spread in front of him.

Sam clambered back over the snow drift clumsily..

"Hey, Dean," he said, slapping Dean's face gently. "Come on, man, let's get going. We can't stay here all night. Come on, stand up... that's right... easy now."

They did a drunken, stumbling dance to steer clear of the trees. Dean was almost a dead weight hanging off Sam's neck and shoulder, and Sam, despite his size, was only able to move him along with considerable effort. His head lolled to the side and Sam rolled him back upright, terrified that he would fall asleep or faint or _die_.

"Dean, stay awake," he begged. "I think you've got a concussion. You can't fall asleep, Dean."

Dean dragged his eyelids up again.

"S'mmy?"

"Yeah, Dean," Sam breathed, his heart skipping a beat as he nearly slipped down an icy slope. "Keep your eyes open. Come on, just one step at a time."

They made their way very painstakingly through the snow (Sam remembered the way he'd watched his skis whiz through the deep, soft powder earlier; now he wished with all his heart that it was hard packed). He glanced backwards and his stomach dropped. They had barely made fifteen yards from the scene of the accident. At this rate, it would be hours before they got anywhere near civilization.

Dean's knees buckled and he nearly collapsed. Sam struggled to stay on his feet.

" _Ugh_."

"Dude, no!" Sam said forcefully, hauling Dean back up. "Quit your bitching! Stand up!"

"You're the bitch."

Dean's voice was so low that it was almost inaudible, but Sam felt a wave of relief wash over him and he almost, _almost_ grinned.

"I'd call you jerk, but you're too pitiful, man."

Dean shot him a dirty look, but evidently it was too much effort because he immediately heaved again. There was nothing in his stomach, but it looked painful and he was left gasping for breath when it was over. Sam helplessly patted his back. It was definitely getting darker, and at a fast rate, too. What the hell was he supposed to do?

What would _Dean_ do?

Sam frowned to himself. It was never him taking care of Dean. It was always Dean taking care of Sammy. He honestly had no idea what to do in this situation, and that left them in a big, stinking pile of _crap_.

Honestly. What was he supposed to do?

He slung Dean's arm over his shoulder again and continued with only thing he could. Which was walk. And Dean was growing limper by the second.

"Hey, you know," Sam told him, panting out a breathy laugh. _Keep Dean awake. Keep him awake_. "Remember that time, uh, when it was my birthday and you got me that tub of soldiers?"

"Mmm."

Sam grunted and lifted him higher.

"I... uh... I never told you how much I liked them. I mean, you must have paid a lot of attention to what I told you after school, 'cause I only said it once. Do you remember?"

Dean made a vague acknowledging noise and Sam took it as his cue to continue.

"It was... um... in second grade, I think. Jake had a whole box and I told you... uh..."

He sank down into a particularly deep area and struggled to pulled himself out.

"You're not being much help, Dean," he grumbled, only half joking. "Where was I? Uh... right. I told you he must have been a millionaire because he had a box of soldiers. I guess I thought ten dollars was a fortune. And you got them for me. You got 'em for me. Just... you know, thanks."

"Of course I got them for you."

He started.

"Dean? You're still up?"

"Heard the whole chick-flicky spiel. You sure lay it on thick. And you wonder why I call you bitch?"

Sam giggled.

"Very funny."

It seemed a little too funny, and he kept giggling hysterically until he was able to pull himself under some degree of control. Dean was staring at him with a sort of bleary-eyed concern.

"You okay?"

"Yeah." Sam wheezed a little, still chuckling. "Yeah, I'm fine. You're not, though. Oh, God. Oh, God, I'm not going to get you down in time. You're gonna die. I'm gonna die. We're gonna freeze to death up on this lonely mountain, all alone, and Dad's gonna find our frozen corpses in a week."

"Drama queen," Dean mumbled, smacking his lips stickily. "We'll be fine, Sammy."

 _We'll be fine, Sammy._

Sam shook himself and then jerked his head back and forth quickly.

"Nope," he muttered. "Nope, not gonna happen."

"What?"

"Nope. None of this 'We'll be fine, Sammy' crap. _You're_ the one who's hurt. Why are _you_ telling _me_ that? No. We'll be fine, _Dean_."

Dean rolled his eyes wearily.

"Whatever, man."

He promptly tripped and accidentally hit Sam's shin. Sam grunted in pain and concluded that he officially hated ski boots.

He checked his cellphone again.

One service bar.

He would have given a leap for joy, but he was dead tired and besides that would mean pulling Dean up too, which was practically impossible. But his heart leapt, figuratively.

"Dean, there's service!"

"Mmm. Gr't."

Sam pursed his lips. Dean was slurring again. He hurriedly scrolled to "Dad" and sent a text.

 _Call hotel. Accident on slope near Flying Dutchman._

Send. There. He stuffed it back in his pocket in time to hear Dean give a shocked gasp.

"What's wrong?"

" _Dammit_ , that's cold!"

Dean was shivering as he yanked his foot out of a small mountain stream, mostly hidden by snowbanks and a thin layer of ice. Unfortunately it was deep enough that the water had soaked over the top of his boot and completely drenched his socks.

"Shit!" Sam sat him down and starting to unbuckle the boot, his cold fingers almost unable to feel the smooth plastic. "You can't keep that on. Your feet'll freeze."

"Thanks for the enlightening observation, Mr. Obvious."

A cold lump of fury wedged itself in his throat.

"Stop kidding around, Dean! This isn't funny!"

Dean didn't answer, but looked repentant. Sam instantly felt horrible.

"Sorry," he mumbled. "I'm a little stressed."

He grabbed his cellphone just to avoid Dean's eyes.

 _Send failed. No service._

He closed his eyes in defeat. Someone seriously hated them.

Dean had managed to undo the rest of the buckles and was now struggling to pull his boot off. Sam helped him and then undid his own buckles. They had each worn two layers of socks (thank goodness). The Big Brother Radar must have had wind of what he planned to do because Dean sat up quickly with a sour look on his face, even as his teeth chattered uncontrollably.

"N... no. Y... you need them."

This time it was Sam's turn to roll his eyes.

"Don't be stupid, Dean. Do you think I want to drag a human block of ice all the way back to the hotel?"

Dean screwed up his mouth in a way that meant he was about to be stubborn and idiotic. Sam shot him a bitch face.

"I said _don't be stupid_."

Huffily, Dean leaned back again and watched with ill-humor as Sam attempted to wrest his wet foot into one of the drier and warmer socks. After he pushed it with difficulty onto Dean's clammy skin (he'd forgotten how difficult it was to put on clothes when wet), Dean pulled away and stuffed his foot back into the boot, still shivering and glowering.

"Let's go," he grunted, accepting Sam's offered hand with reluctance.

There was a long way yet to go.

* * *

"'M tired, Sammy."

The words sent a chill through Sam that even the cold night wind hadn't caused. He rubbed Dean's back vigorously (Dean didn't even protest), hoping he might be able to transfer some warmth even though he was shivering violently himself.

"We're almost there, Dean."

They weren't really. Dean was fully aware of that, and he also knew that they had to move as quickly as possible. So if he said he was tired, he definitely wasn't joking.

"A couple minutes maybe," Sam amended, relenting.

Dean sank down with a heavy sigh. Sam didn't dare to. He was afraid that if he did, he wouldn't have the will to stand up again. He only allowed himself to lean against the rough bark of a pine.

Even that was cold. He straightened. Time for the periodic phone check. He didn't bother to remove his gloves this time because his fingers were too frozen to feel anything. He let out a winded breath of relief when he saw that the message had been sent. Thank heavens for phone service, spotty as it was at this altitude.

 _Please hurry, Dad. Please, please, please._

"Dean, the phone's w..." he looked up and saw Dean sprawled on the ground, his eyes only half open. His throat closed in fear. " _Sonuvabitch_! Dean!"

This time he didn't get a response. He slapped Dean's face frantically, ignoring the freezing, desperate tears that were starting to run down his face. Why was everything so damned _hopeless_? It wasn't fair.

"Dean, get up..." his voice cracked on the last word. "Dean, you can't do this. Come on, man. Stop. This isn't funny."

The silence lengthened and he forced himself to calm down. He couldn't waste time. Time was too precious.

"Fine," he snapped at his annoyingly comatose brother. " _Fine,_ okay? You know what? I'm getting your ass down myself, whatever it takes."

He pulled Dean over his shoulders, feeling oddly like a soldier carrying a fallen comrade, and tried to stand, and _holy crap_ Dean was _way_ heavier than he looked. He stumbled backward and almost dropped Dean on his already injured head. He caught himself and slowed his quickening breaths.

He never was quite sure how he continued over the remaining leg with a well-built man on his back who felt like he weighed about twice Sam's own body weight. It was dark, and it was cold, and his legs were numb, and his grip kept slipping, and Dean's breaths were so shallow and quiet if he hadn't been able to feel the heavy weight on his back he wasn't sure if he would even be aware of his presence.

What felt like hours later, he thought he heard a faint thrum as if of propellers and gazed at the sky blearily, wondering vaguely what it might be. The cold muddled his head a lot more than he liked. The thrum increased in volume.

 _Plane? No, helicopter._

Then a bright light was shining in his eyes. Light meant _people_. People meant he could stop, finally. He slumped to his knees, too tired to feel anything at all.

" _Sam_!"

It was a voice that seemed to come from the end of a very long tunnel, but it was a familiar voice. Sam sighed, relief washing over his numbed mind. Sweet, sweet success. Sort of.

"Dad?" he mumbled, still clutching onto Dean tightly.

 _Keep him warm, keep him safe_ , chanted the ongoing little voice wearily in his head. _Keep Dean warm. Keep him safe._

Wind whipped up around them, the thrum augmenting, and then somebody was there beside him, helping him up.

"It's gonna be okay, son _._ "

For the first time since the start of the whole, terrible ordeal, Sam thought that maybe it would.

* * *

 **Please review! I'm not sure how this turned out… especially the ending, which to me sounded a little rushed, but I didn't want to drag it out for too long. I'd love feedback… a lot of it preferably!**


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